Most people are easy to read. The more they want to hide something, the more they show it off. The “altered” people are more difficult.
By altered I mean, people whose emotional foundation isn’t most common;
ordinary or standard.
But then those emotional alterations is eight times out of ten easy to spot and then you have to adjust the reading.
Take a little known guy like Nathan Stolpman for example. Hard to read, some would say. But if you seen him pressed and unstable, you’d know a lot.
We know when the Brooklyn sounding “For sure!” entered. We know when the script-kid-term “boom!” came along . We also know the three stages of his voice changing.
stage 1: love me! love me! love me! I have so much truth to tell you!
stage 2: why is everybody always pickin’ on me.
stage 3: my survival is secured. I can relax now!
He is also one of the very, very few, who can focus so hard on something that a clown can pet him on his head without him paying it any attention. And that – I promise you – is a skill!
”Trond Plaskeby always did go for the grandest of explanations”, his aunt Turid resolutes.
“Some boys at school vented the wheels on his bicycle, and he was sure it was a ginger man and that sweet little old lady who minded the emporium.
They where innocent, of course .. at least of that. But he persisted. And when the woman died many years later from heart failure, he was seen for several months, protesting at the cemetery with a sign that said DEATH FAKER!”
In his later years, after blaming the death of the Swedish politician Olof Palme on Palme’s own wife, he found it best leaving Sweden for Spain where he did his best avoiding the plaines.
Hot for the movies but lacking acting-skills, he signed up as an extra but was mostly covering different cutting-room floors. Finaly he had a break in a del Toro movie as a bad example and demanded a diploma for this. His wish was granted.
During this time he also started an underground fanzine about the swedish child-book author Astrid Lindgren.
“He had four subscribers”, Leonid Baskercombie remembers. “Alas, one of them Astrid Lindgren”.
When Trond accused her of being the mastermind behind moving the Spanish stairs to Italy, she had enough and sent the director Ingmar Bergman to talk some sense into Trond.
“It was a bad choice sending Ingmar”, Sven Nyqvist recalls in his diary. “Trond and Ingmar rapidly became friends and started a taverna.
Trond elevated himself to pastry-chef and Ingmar responded swiftly by 86-ing every dish. They also scolded and accused every guest who dared to enter the premises.”
The pair cooked their last meal together on the roof of the restaurant, throwing eggs in the face of a great number of passers by on the street below while singing “Feed the world”.
Ravi Shankar was invited but arrived to late, by a fortnight, and without his sitarr.
By then Ingmar was in France avoiding tax while Trond was walking on egg-shells. The taverna “Whites only, no yoke” and the bistro “Tapastry Inc” was under lock and key.
Trond filed a partnership with Cory Snotass; joined forces with argonaut Mason Slechtjahr of the Youtube-channel “Truth for sale!” and the rest is vital.
In conclusion Rusty Bike and Manly Isle of the conspiracy podcast “Put the tail on the donkey” made a special appearance and then vanished very plainly.
..told my various sources
“We remember his PR-genius”, Cecil Körperbohne muses. He was the one that suggested we’d change our city-slogan to “WE LOVE BOISE” and printed up free Tees with “BOISE, BOISE, BOISE”.
“NAMPA RISES – IDAHO FALLS” was also one of Donalds’ slogans.
But he struck gold with “IDAHO – JUST ANOTHER STATE”, which resulted in Idaho suing Trump for possession of everything he had – which he denied and was instead jailed for contempt of court. His defence was admittance of contempt of the courthouse, but having vague feelings close to a sensation of void regarding the court itself unless they where in session.
“As president”, sources close to the W.H. says, “he always believe he has an upper hand dealing with internal affairs, because of his special interest in proctology”.
Two representatives of United Artists remember Donald Trump showing them his ass (a donkey named Camilla). One of them saw just a crescent while the other saw the whole of the moon. The witness agrees it might have been the angle.
Another story – first told in Barbara Bush’s memoirs “Happy-go-lucky little me!” – describes Donald as a little school-boy being obsessed or obese. Which or if: by what, she can’t recall.
“He wore his heart at his sleeve”, she remembers. “And his leave was a loss”, she oracles and then digress sulkily into memories of rose-buds and phenomenons of unclear origin.
“I’ll never forget where I was when JFK was shot”, Donald himself tells the Rolling Stone Magazine, late August 1988.
“I was in mime-class. Behind an invisible pane of glass. A strong wind almost swept me away, but luckily I got hold of a rope.”